


Out in the Garden, There's Half a Heaven

by MelisandreStark



Category: His Dark Materials (TV), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: F/F, General Oblation Board, briefly, endure a little unhealthy masriel first, it'll just take a hot sec, marisa keeps lyra au, maryisa will happen i promise, nun!mary, slowburn, thats its own warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:15:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29658111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelisandreStark/pseuds/MelisandreStark
Summary: Marisa and Asriel solve their problems with denial and a quick marriage, so Lyra Belacqua grows up with parents. Despite this, neither Lyra nor her mother find that their world serves them right, and when Lyra discovers a window of escape in the hollow of an oak tree she has no idea how important it will one day become.
Relationships: Lyra Belacqua & Marisa Coulter, Marisa Coulter/Mary Malone
Comments: 11
Kudos: 48





	1. Chapter 1

Marisa does not remember much about the few weeks after Lyra’s birth other than a few slowed, hazy moments of emotion that she’d ideally not think about ever again. She remembers pain, and cries, and more than one person’s blood—but all rationality comes swooping back at the altar of a church with an impatient Asriel at her side, and a dead Edward in a recently filled plot outside.

Getting married too soon would be a public insult, and it is on these grounds that initially they had decided to wait. Put the baby somewhere else for a year and lay low until some other scandal makes both society and the magisterium forget about the entire affair but—upon the revelation of Asriel’s intentions to quickly return to the North, Marisa realises that if they do not do it now, they will never get around to it all. So they marry, quickly and quietly, and with the new title of Lady Belacqua she returns to her new husband’s family manor in the country.

His parents are long gone, so it’s all hers.

Marisa Coulter—or, rather, Belacqua—is not a fan of the countryside at all but is more angry at the fact that Asriel does not accompany her for more than a week. Cruelly ironic, since he seems far enthralled by the baby who he elects to name Lyra than she is, but the following Saturday the novelty has worn off and he returns on an airship to the North.

She doesn’t watch him leave because to watch him go would be more self-harm than she can currently bare. A woman raised for being a wife—and having been one before—this higher status as a proper Lady should probably mean something to her. She now has the luxury, for a year at least, to do absolutely nothing as someone cooks her meals, cleans her manor and raises her child but she’s bored after an hour and starts to search ravenously through the library for something better. The magisterium took most of Asriel’s assets after the trial, but there remains more than Edward had in the first place so, really, she should be content.

The lack of noise in the country compared to the city is something she thought, if nothing else, would be a positive but the baby’s cries ring throughout the corridor until Marisa wants to rip her hair out. She retreats outside at first, fires the nanny and hires a new one though it seems to make very little difference. “She’s a very wilful child.” The second tells her, as if that’s an adequate explanation. “I think, perhaps, some time with her mother might do her some good.”

Marisa fires the second one too, and a third is hired by the next morning.

She allows her eviction to continue for another couple of weeks until it starts to rain, and she cannot escape her child anymore. She hasn’t spent more than a few hours with the creature since she gave birth for complete lack of interest, and annoyance. Babies are hardly something she’s unfamiliar with—being a woman in society, there’s always someone dropping them out—but she has never felt the slightest urge to have one of her own. If every girl’s dream is to get married and have babies then perhaps Marisa never was a girl, something better than that—something…beyond the others.

After a brief lull the baby’s screams echo around again, and Marisa lets out a feral growl. The golden monkey’s head darts to the door behind her, and she feels a certain longing to investigate.

“It’s not my problem.” She hisses at him, before realising that this actually _is_ her problem, and Asriel’s, except he’s run away instead of dealing with it and she is better than that. Grudgingly, Marisa pushes herself to her feet and heads towards the nursery, her daemon leading far too eagerly ahead of her.

It gets louder and louder until a headache starts to build at the back of Marisa’s head and she just wants to shout _TURN IT OFF!_ But they can’t just turn it off, fools—perhaps, as it almost always is, she must do this herself.

She pushes the door open forcefully enough to scare the nanny who jumps halfway across the room. “My Lady!” She exclaims, trying to curtsey only to cause a rip of screams from the child.

Marisa scowls. “Give it here.”

She hesitates, and Marisa’s expression darkens. “I said, give me the baby.”

Apparently having sprouted the ability to respond to a basic command (Marisa makes a mental note to make the housekeeper look for a good replacement) the nanny passes the baby over and takes the hint that she’s no longer wanted.

Alone with her daughter for the first time, Marisa glances down to properly look at the angry child for the first time. Her little fists are clenched her cheeks a bright, angry red—for a moment she has to admire the ferocity the child seems to be bringing to her new life. God knows Marisa feels like that more often as she gets older, so on some very bizarre level she can relate.

It is in this moment that she realises, for all the awkward hours she has had to spend their company, she has never actually been interested enough to observe someone calm a baby. The nanny had been bouncing her up and down so she tries for less than ten seconds before giving up and gritting her teeth.

There is no noise in this world more grating that a baby crying.

She repositions the baby against her chest and to her surprise she calms a little, rooting her face against the fabric of her dress. The woman stands there dumbly before realising that the child is probably hungry. Lyra safe against her with one arm, Marisa leans against the door to call for the nanny but finds the corridor empty and groans.

The golden monkey chitters to catch her attention from his perch atop the bars of the crib with Lyra’s beetle daemon circling him. Having no idea where they keep Lyra’s milk, Marisa forces herself into the chair in the corner of the room and sucks in a deep breath.

Feeding her daughter might have been a little less painful if she’d been instructed in how to do so by someone when she was born, but she’d been under the impression they weren’t keeping her then so hadn’t bothered inquiring—the offer of giving her sweetened cows milk as a replacement had been completely satisfactory so Marisa, until this moment, hasn’t give a second thought. The little creature in her arms exclaims her impatience rudely, wriggling in Marisa’s grip so ferociously that she almost drops her which makes it all the more remarkable, once she latches, when she settles completely.

Marisa chokes at the wholly unfamiliar and new feeling she’s not entirely sure she’s comfortable with, though is too grateful at the sudden quiet to be properly annoyed. There is a certain primal satisfaction to be able to feed her daughter herself, entirely alone, without anyone else. That this little creature is entirely her own—belongs to her completely in a way completely unique to Lyra.

Despite herself, Marisa smiles gently and brushes her finger over the wispy brown hairs her baby has on her head. Her daughter is quite a lot easier to enjoy like this—quiet, content, and looking just like her mother.

The next day Marisa fires the nanny and doesn’t hire another. She had thought her year in social exile would be torture, but quite suddenly the thought of anyone being close to her daughter other than herself feels horrifying.

* * *

Asriel returns every few months and Marisa would be lying if she said she doesn’t look forward to when he does. Their relationship has never been particularly romantic, and in that way he brings her no flowers or pastries or trinkets, but the tales of his trips which she covets far more highly. He is never in any rush to see their growing child which is something Marisa is perversely pleased with—at some point she stopped seeing Lyra and _theirs_ but _hers;_ she’s never been particularly good at sharing.

That is not to say she does not enjoy his company without her daughter, and while she is not a sexually driven person she’s always enjoyed it with Asriel. With Edward the act had been a lot of laying still and waiting for him to roll off—her new husband is much more creative, and if nothing else she can appreciate that.

A year goes by and Marisa doesn’t return to London, even though if she so desired, she could do. London means a lot social interaction, it means parties and starting to climb the ladder again, and while these are all things she is _dying_ to partake in it also means giving Lyra to the world. Her daughter has been entrapped in scandal from the moment of her conception which will make her an eyesore amongst other children, but beyond that Marisa isn’t entirely sure that she wants anyone else to have access to her little girl. She doesn’t want anyone else to touch her, to hold her or play with her—Lyra is _hers,_ and no one else has the right to be within ten miles of her.

She barely likes it when Asriel spends with her—albeit never for more than five minutes at a time—to the image of the wives of London fawning and prodding at her baby makes Marisa feel physically ill.

With the excuse of Asriel’s return, Marisa rationalises that the best time to return to society is a few months shy of Lyra’s second birthday. With Asriel back in Brytain for a while it’s the perfect time to present a perfect family front, the perfect time to restart her life.

Lyra’s playing in her room while her parents get ready next door, Asriel sliding on a blazer while his wife contemplates dresses almost completely naked. He smiles and puts a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Pick the red one.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Is it not always best to get a second opinion?”

Marisa contemplates this for a second before selecting the blue instead. Asriel rolls his eyes and pulls away from her. “Are you angry with me about something? Your cruelty _astounds_ me, Lady Belacqua.”

She steps into the gown with a bemused expression. “If you must know, your opinion was entirely irrelevant to my decision. But you are wearing a blue tie, and Lyra’s will be in blue too. It’s only right we be cohesive.”

“Because people are really going to pay attention to our colour coordination.” Asriel scoffs and turns to the mirror, running a hand through his hair.

“Just because you couldn’t care less doesn’t mean it won’t be picked up upon.” Marisa counters, pulling the sleeves on. “Zip me?”

He does as he is bid. “You’re far too paranoid about these things, you know. It’s only a researchers party—it’s not like the whole of London is going to be there.”

“It is our first formal outing as a family. We _need_ to make a good impression on everyone—we are a perfect, cohesive family unit and would do well to try and convince people that we _always have been._ ” Her makeup is already done, lipstick aside, and today she opts for a more neutral shade as she plucks the bullet from it’s stand. “You don’t need to do anything but stand, look pretty and give clever answers when people ask about your work.”

“Because _you_ are so clever and on top of this, my _lady._ ” He drawls and mocks a bow. Marisa shoots him an angry look—only the top lip painted—and points roughly towards the door. “Go and change Lyra. I’ll dress her in a minute, but you are doing nothing but making a nuisance of yourself here.”

Asriel’s face morphs into one of disgust at the thought. “Absolutely _not._ ”

“ _Go!”_

He grabs her arm and spins her back around. “You don’t tell me what to do, Marisa. I think you’ll find—as my wife—it’s rather the opposite that is true.”

The golden monkey hisses, though Marisa’s face settles into a picture of indifference. If Asriel didn’t know any better then he’d think his weak intimidation had done something, but from look on the monkey’s face to the tension in her shoulders, all he’s done is enrage her. One more comment and they’ll be in a full-blown argument. The thought brings a smile to his lips.

Asriel steps back, knowing when to choose his battles. It’s often amusing to get her angry, but in this circumstance, he doubts she’ll see any sort of humour in it later. “I’ll see to Lyra.” He eventually says. “But I shan’t change her. I’m not a maid.”

Marisa scoffs and says something undoubtedly rude but Asriel isn’t in the room long enough to hear it.

Lyra, for her part, is on the floor with a stuffed ice bear in one hand and a doll in the other—Asriel watches, vaguely amused, as she sets the doll on the ground so it’s stands up on it’s own and then pounces on it with the bear with more ferocity than one might expect from a child aged twenty months. He clears his throat to draw her attention and is even more amused when she regards him briefly with an air of nonchalance before returning to her game.

“You’ve got to get ready, Lyra.” He tells her, which once again attracts her attention. She blinks her big, brown eyes at him and frowns.

“I play.” She tells him decisively, holding the bear up. “ _Bear._ ”

“Indeed.” Asriel kneels down next to her. “And you remember who I am?”

“You _Daddy._ ” She tells him. Marisa often boasts of her daughters quick development, and Asriel supposes it is clever enough that she can remember his name after him only being around for a few days recently. But she clearly doesn’t associate any of the affection other children might with the word _‘Daddy’._ This theory is proven when Marisa steps in behind him, and Lyra exclaims “Mama!” excitedly.

“Hello darling!” Marisa beams as the child runs right past Asriel and up to her mother, holding her arms out to be picked up. Asriel imagines that Marisa would like him to feel somewhat jealous—and he is, a little, deep down—but knows that if you dedicate your life to a dog, then the dog will come to you, and if you choose to spend your time doing better things then the dog will pass you up. He can live with a toddler choosing Marisa over him. “We’re going to get you all dressed up for a party. How does that sound?”

Pan turns into a small ferret and crawls onto Marisa’s shoulder as the little girl giggles.

 _She’s a good mother,_ Stelmaria thinks, nudging Asriel as he watches his wife lay Lyra down on her changing table.

He narrows his eyes and crosses his arms, leaning against the doorframe. _Wait until Lyra starts becoming independent. It won’t last._

* * *

At three, Marisa hires another nanny. Not because she has become any less frightfully protective over her child, but because Asriel is useless and with the Magisterium starting to take real interest in her ideas she no longer has time to dote on Lyra all day long.

To begin with Lyra takes to the nanny—a gyptian woman called Ma Costa—like a fish takes to land, but upon the realisation that Ma Costa is far less vigilant than her mother she slowly settles into acceptance. While Marisa starts to explore and push the boundaries of experimental theology and ethics, Lyra has a more simple endeavour in the garden.

They return to the country often, when Marisa needs time to plan and work without the distractions of being a dutiful socialite plaguing her, and that is when Lyra is most content.

One of the excellent things about living in the country is the space. Mostly it’s just fields and fields and fields but there’s the odd little cluster of trees here and there, and these are the places Lyra likes the most. She likes them for two reasons: the first being that her mother never comes with her if they’re going to the muddy, dirty forest areas and, two, because if her mother doesn’t come it’s much easier to escape the grownups.

That’s exactly what she’s doing today—and has run off giggling into the foliage while Ma Costa is talking to one of the scullery maids. She flaps her arms up and down beside her and makes whooshing sounds until she spots a little trail of woodlice crawling into a particularly large oak tree.

“Look Lyra!” Pan says, morphing into a beetle to follow them.

“Is their home in the tree?” She asks, as Pan crawls back out as a little pine marten.

“There’s something funny here.” He replies, sticking his head back out.

“Like a bug?”

“No. Come in.”

Lyra glances down at the pastel blue dress her mother has her in, and pictures the future scolding she’ll get should she dirty it. Deciding very quickly that this must surely be worth a beratement, Lyra crawls around the tree and pushes her little body tightly through the crack Pan came through. Before seeing anything, Lyra decided that she’s very glad to have found this tree, because there’s no way any grownup could follow her in.

“Look, Lyra!” Pan prompts again, climbing up onto her shoulder as she turns to face a glimmer of light—like a tear in the air around them—floating right before them. Lyra gasps and glances to her daemon, unsure what to say.

“What is it?” She asks, her hand creeping slightly nearer.

“Do you think it’s magic?” Pan turns into a moth and flies around it—there’s nothing behind it or in front, and yet wind comes from it anyway. Neither girl nor daemon have ever come across anything more curious in their whole life.

Lyra bites her lip. “It must be.” She replies, her little hand just a few centimetres away from the tear. She feels such a strong urge to just thrust her hand through it and see what happens, but if she’s learnt anything from Ma Costa’s fairy tales it’s that you should always be cautious around magic. “I’m going to touch it.” She says, anyway.

Pan curls up against her neck. “I don’t know, Lyra. Maybe we should tell Mama.”

At this thought, Lyra is only spurred on further and pushes her fingers through the tear to find…well, nothing really. At least not visually—but she can _feel_ something ever so exciting and fun on the other side, so much that letting her feel isn’t quite enough. She needs to be able to see through it, climb through it.

Her parents have explored Africa and all of Europa and the North too—she should be able to explore a tree not far from the house. Taking a deep breath, and appreciating the air of encouragement Pan flashes her, Lyra leans forward and sticks her head through the tear.

Blinking in surprise, she what she sees through the tear is completely different and yet not different at all. It _feels_ like another world, so opposite to her own that she can barely comprehend it at the humble age of three, but at the same time it’s only a cluster of trees, much like the one she plays in, that she sees. The problem is that this clearly isn’t _her_ garden, and that’s a little scary, but also a little exciting.

Upon glancing around, she notices that this new secret garden is not completely empty. Across the clearing there’s a woman in a sort of habit reading a book that’s too far away for Lyra to read the title of.

“Do we know her?” Lyra whispers to Pan, not daring to go any further out.

Pan shakes his head. Within the next year they’ll recognise what she’s wearing as a nun’s habit—Mama will take them to a catholic girls school, just to look around, and elect to keep Lyra schooling at home after all—but they’ll finally understand what they’re looking at. “Where’s her daemon?”

Lyra narrows her eyes to try and scan for one but can’t see any. “He’s probably a little one, tucked under her dress-thing. Like when you’re cold.”

The familiar voice of Ma Costa rings through the air, and the little girl’s attention is reoccupied. “Lyra! Where have you gotten to, heh? Come out now!”

“We’ll come back.” Lyra promises Pan, and the pulls herself out the tear. They clamber out of the tree and the little girl makes up a tall tale about seeing a fairy, her nanny rolls her eyes and brings her inside to be changed before her mother can see the dirt she managed to cake all over her clothes.

For the next few days it rains, so Lyra’s not allowed outside, but she can think of nothing but the secret garden hidden in the tree.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lyra investigates the secret garden, marisa's personal and work lives see development

Marisa opens her letter with a single cut and tears the enclosed message out, letting a satisfied grin play over her lips. As she had anticipated, the magisterium is very interested in her ideas about Dust and is willing to fund further work to the newly formed General Oblation Board. Marisa had once been naïve enough to think marrying a fool like Edward would give her any of the power and recognition she desires—it seems she is more than capable of achieving that on her own.

Asriel has just returned from his last venture and she is more pleased for it than usual, and—rather unorthodoxly—goes straight to his study and pushes him against his desk with a mischievous smirk. She’ll tell him about her success later, and imagines he’ll be mostly indifferent, but for now shall celebrate in the way she knows best.

They take their time to finish, and Marisa leaves without a word—Asriel is left somewhat dazed and confused, a state that doesn’t befall him often, and makes his wife most pleased. It’s coming into summer now which means Lyra is ever desperate to be outside, and Marisa contemplates taking her for a walk to celebrate inwardly. Her mind then turns to all the designs she could start working to get a head start on her project which will first start actively moving forward in a month in London, and decides that her work is the priority right now. Tomorrow she’ll take Lyra to town and they’ll get some new clothes for her which she’ll hate, but Marisa will enjoy.

She retires to her own study and doesn’t come out for hours yet, contemplating saws and scythes.

* * *

Ma Costa crosses her arms and rolls her eyes as Lyra marches off in the same direction as always, brows furrowed with purpose. “Don’t you want to explore somewhere else, Lyra? I heard that there are some new lambs towards the village.”

The little girl shakes her head without even turning around. “Nope!”

The nanny shrugs and follows after her. For whatever reason Lyra has taken particular interest in one grove of trees that seems quite unremarkable, but it’s beyond the older woman to decipher the motives of a three-year-old. She’s brought her book so it content to let the little girl play whatever game she has found so captivating as of late while she relaxes.

Lyra, of course, has motives far more complicated than a simple game. She and Pan have spent the past few weeks returning to the tree as often as possible to spy into the secret garden. More often than not the woman in the habit is there with a book though, admittedly, never on Sundays—and once they got extra lucky and saw her with another woman wearing the same thing. Neither Pan nor Lyra could make out exactly what they were saying but it was dreadfully exciting anyway.

Once out of earshot, Lyra looked to her daemon and says, “I think we should talk to the woman.”

Pan’s wildcat eyes widen almost comically. “We can’t! We don’t know what would happen.”

Lyra rolls her eyes. “Nothing will happen. We’ve stuck out heads in a million billion times. We could _explore._ ”

Despite what he’s saying it’s evident that her daemon _does_ want to venture further but is more apprehensive than Lyra. The little girl takes no heed, mind already made, and slips through the crack in the tree’s bark to the tear. As expected, since it’s a Thursday, the woman is back laying against the tree she’s always against reading a book.

“Are you ready?” Lyra whispers to Pan, a nervous grin playing over her features.

Pan turns to a goldfinch and sits on top of her head. “Okay. But be quick, I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

Almost shaking with fear and excitement, Lyra slowly sticks one leg through and then another—fully through and feeling the breeze of the secret garden all over her for the first time. They’re far enough that the woman reading hasn’t noticed them and wouldn’t unless they made an enormous noise. The tear, as on Lyra’s side, is hidden in the trunk of an enormous oak on this side too so they have somewhere to hide should they need to run away quickly.

“It’s just like home but not at all.” Pan mutters, fluttering out of the trunk just far enough to take a proper look around. “It’s massive, Lyra!”

The little girl eagerly follows him out, careful to keep her steps too light to hear—a skill she has long since learnt from stealing biscuits in the kitchen, or sneaking up on her Ma Costa (her nanny always calls her infuriating when she does that, but then laughs, so Lyra knows she doesn’t really mind).

“I think we should say hello.” Lyra says, leaning against a smaller tree to hide from the woman’s eyeline. “She might like someone to talk to.”

“And she also might not.” Pan counters.

“Then we can just run back. It’s not far.” Lyra says, and that seems justification enough. Lots of children become shy and hide when being introduced to strangers, and while her mother might have preferred that, Lyra has never had any trouble talking to new people. Shyness is one thing that doesn’t and never has plagued her at all. With this in mind, Lyra toddles out into the open and loudly exclaims, “Hello!”

The woman’s head shoots up in surprise and she blinks rapidly, looking around her for where this child could have possibly come from.

“I’m Lyra.” She adds, coming closer. “What are you reading?”

The woman swallows, still looking around. “Uhm, it’s a science book. About quantum mechanics.”

Lyra blinks.

“But you’re far too small to understand.” She adds in response to the blank expression. “Where are your parents, Lyra?”

She cocks her head to the side slightly. “My Mama is doing work in her study, and my Daddy in his.”

The woman gives her an incredulous look. “…Are you lost then?”

Lyra shakes her head. “Nope. What’s your name?”

“Sister Mary Catherine.” The woman says, looking somewhat perturbed by her name for a reason Lyra can’t understand. “Mary.” She corrects herself. “Just Mary. Anyway, Lyra…do you need me to help you home?”

Lyra shakes her head. “No. I just wanted to talk to you. Can you tell me about your book?”

Mary feels very irresponsible just staying here and searching for the girl’s parents, but she seems so certain and unconcerned about not having lost them that looking around might be fruitless. She makes the assumption that Lyra is a relative of the farmers that live next to the convent and forces a smile. “Well, this book is about very little things. The tiniest things in the world.”

“Like…a flea?”

“Even smaller than a flea. Too small for us to see.” Mary tells her. “To be honest, I’m having a little trouble understanding it myself.”

Lyra blinks. “But you’re a grownup, aren’t you?”

The woman gives her a shy smile. “Yes, but it’s very complicated. But also fascinating. That said, I don’t think I’ll ever understand it fully—I don’t think anyone does, really.”

Lyra crosses her arms. “That’s not true. I bet my Daddy and Mama would understand it. They know _everything._ ”

Mary, who is under the impression that her parents are farmers, smiles endearingly. “No one knows everything. But I’m sure they’re very close. Are they not worried about where you are?”

“My Daddy comes home every night and plays with me, you know.” Lyra ignores her. “We play with blocks and dolls and my bear, and his daemon likes to sleep next to Pan when we’re really tired. And my Mama is the smartest most beautiful woman in the world, and they love each other and me so much. Once, I saw a great big lion with horns and wings at the back of my wardrobe and it was going to run up and eat me but then my Daddy came in and fought it with Stelmaria and then my Mama shot it through the eyes with her pistol!”

“Right.” Mary tries not to smile, noting that she is remarkably well spoken. “You see a lot of mythical lions, do you?”

“Oh, yes.” Lyra nods. “Don’t we, Pan?”

At that a mouse crawls out of Lyra’s sleeve and nods. Mary is about to exclaim at how quaint that is, and how unusual, when the mouse miraculously morphs into a moth and flits up to the girls shoulder. The nun stares in disbelief while the little girl looks entirely unbothered.

After a long moment of silence, Mary eventually utters out, “Did your mouse just turn into a moth?”

Lyra frowns. “He’s not a mouse.”

“I…don’t understand. Can he do it again?”

To her absolute shock, the moth falls into a young wildcat and regards her strangely. “Of course I can. Where’s your daemon?” It says.

Mary has to rub her eyes and eyes to make sure she’s not dreaming, and even then, she’s not entirely convinced. “My…my…what?”

“Your daemon.” Lyra repeats, her tone suddenly more urgent. “Where’s your daemon?”

Pan jumps back up and Lyra catches him, holding him to her chest as he whispers, “Lyra, I don’t think she has a daemon.”

Filled with terror at the prospect, Lyra runs back to the tree at full sprint. By the time Mary gets up to call after her and whatever that creature was, they are both gone.

* * *

Weeks pass and Lyra is far to rattled to venture near the tear again. She eventually finds the courage to approach her mother, who is sat writing a letter, and taps her leg. “Mama?”

Marisa’s lips settled into a hard line and she stops writing, the golden monkey stirring by her legs. She turns to Lyra, painting on a gentle smile. “I’m working right now, Lyra. Go and play.”

“But I need to ask you a question!”

“Ask your nanny. I haven’t got time now, Lyra. _Go._ ”

The little girl decides this is far too important and stomps her foot down. “No! I need to ask a scary question that Ma Costa wouldn’t understand but you would because your super super clever and if you don’t I’ll scream and scream and scream!”

Marisa Coulter is never someone who has cowered to threats, whether they be from cardinals in the magisterium or angry children, and today is no exception. She stands, filled with annoyance, and picks Lyra up. She starts to march to her room with the intention to lock her in until she can calm herself down, or the nanny finds her. Lyra bats her fists against her mother’s shoulder, and Marisa flinches long enough for Lyra to wriggle out of grip.

“Can a person not have a daemon!?” Lyra yells so loudly it could be heard three corridors down. Marisa’s eyes widen and she wonders frantically whether her currently illiterate child could have understood anything she’s been working on—the monkey is tense and still behind her, teeth bared. Lyra pants before her, fists clenched. “Can they?” She asks, a little more quietly.

Marisa sucks in a deep breath. “Of course not. Why do you ask, darling?”

“A dream I had.” Lyra replies, her tone mirroring her mother’s so much that Marisa realises quickly that she must be lying. She grabs Lyra’s collar and thrusts her closer, eyes fixed in a glare. The little girl flails as the monkey grabs pan and holds him in a matching grip.

“Did you look at something you weren’t supposed to?” Marisa says in a such a low tone that it’s almost inaudible. Lyra, never having been handled like this before, feel her lip tremble and then breaks out into tears.

Instantly feeling a wash of guilt overcome her, Marisa releases her grip and then pulls Lyra into her arms. “I didn’t mean it, my lovely, I didn’t mean it, I’m so sorry.” She whispers, pressing a kiss to Lyra’s cheek. “I’m sorry, darling. Do you want to get some hot chocolatl? We’ll have some together, just us, yes?”

Lyra nods against her, and Marisa carries her downstairs to the kitchen feeling simultaneously wracked with guilt and annoyed about the origins of Lyra’s question. She curses herself for being so easily agitated and resolves to have a word with the nanny to sort out her child’s impertinence. She’s sure if she’d spent the time she used to with Lyra she’d be a perfect, well behaved child so for the first time slightly regrets taking on so much more work—a feeling that doesn’t last as she watches the girl wipe her nose with her sleeve.

“Use a tissue, Lyra,” She passes a tissue to the child using her sweet, singsong voice. “That’s right. You’re alright, aren’t you darling? You’re perfectly alright.”

The golden monkey jumps up onto the table next to them and leans forward to gently stroke Pan in his ermine form, which makes Lyra physically untense to her mother’s relief. For once, she actually offers the golden monkey a small smile before commanding the head cook to boil two cups of milk with a threat of dismissal if the entire kitchen staff doesn’t make themselves scarce right after.

“I love you, Lyra.” Marisa tells her daughter, brushing her hair from her face. “You always know that, don’t you darling?”

Lyra nods and snuggles closer to her. “Mhmm.” She mumbles. “Love you too.”

The cook brings the chocolatl and quickly leaves. Marisa sets Lyra down on a stool by the counter and blows on it for her. “Take little sips, darling. It might be a little hot.”

Lyra takes a big gulp and then quickly spits it back into her cup, sticking her tongue out. Marisa sighs and rubs at her brow. saying ‘I told you so’ is never satisfying with Lyra. She blows on it again, and on second attempt the temperature is more amendable to her daughter. Marisa sips at her own slowly, trying not to cringe as Lyra spills her drink on her white top.

“My darling,” She starts, voice as soft and delicate as she can make it. “Why did you ask Mummy that question earlier?”

Lyra tilts her head back, pouring the last of the drink in her mouth before dropping the mug back down on the counter while Pan flutters impatiently around her as a moth. “I wanted to know the answer. I had a bad dream.” Lyra climbs onto the counter and crawls over to her mother. “Can we play?”

Marisa thinks about all the letters she has to write, the early designs she has to complete and the meeting she needs to prep for. “Of course, my lovely.” She forces a smile.

The guilt wears off less than a week later, but she does let Lyra sleep in her and Asriel’s bed for the next to five nights much to his annoyance. They make up for the disruption in his study, her own, the library and—on one occasion—the changing room of a tailor’s.

* * *

For all Marisa’s meeting goes well—the magisterium are very excited by her ideas and promise lots of funding, her underlings seems competent enough and she has the freedom to dismiss any she likes at any time—more personally, things seem to be going wrong. She brought Lyra back to London with the intention to stay for a few months after the day of the meeting, but her daughter was a terror every second after, begging and screaming and demanding to be returned to their other home.

The logical response would be to just send her back with the nanny and stay in London alone, but she cannot bear to part from her child that for months at a time so decides, for her own peace of mind, to be at the country house whenever possible which placates Lyra to no end.

Asriel is going up North again with a dual purpose—one, as ever, for his own machinations but also because he’s promised to scout good areas to build a facility where her work can be continued by the other experimental theologians and engineers of the General Oblation Board. She’ll have to go herself at some point, of course, because treaties with the Tartars and bears will need to be established but she’s certain she can do so with relative ease.

Lyra remains her biggest problem, or at least Marisa thinks, until she finds herself exhausted and running to the toilet to hurl her dinner every morning. She doesn’t dare go to a doctor for confirmation because she understands her own symptoms well enough and curses her own idiocy in becoming lax with contraception when Asriel was home.

This is what spurs her decision to travel north without Lyra for as long as it takes to sort out the Tartar and bear situation as soon as possible. It hurts her to leave the child she’s never left before, but these things need to be done—and if extensive strenuous and unliveable conditions make her body unhospitable then, well, that’s how it has to be. Marisa Belacqua—Belacqua, Coulter, Van Zee or Delamare, it’s never made a difference—has never _wanted_ a child. They are obstacles and signs of her own weakness, and for all she loves Lyra she has never resented her motherhood anymore that when she’s preparing to leave.

With a sigh of resignation, Marisa kisses Lyra goodbye the next Wednesday and doesn’t see her again for the next four months.

**Author's Note:**

> yay its science chaos family


End file.
